


Wonder

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and restraint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonder

Elsie thinks about his question, mulls for a moment over her glass of wine, stares into the firelight. Her best quality? She doesn't know really. Doesn't even remember how they got onto this topic, something about what they'd write on their respective references if they had the chance.

"An eye for detail, I suppose. That's important for a housekeeper, isn't it? To notice the corners and nooks and baseboards." She sips her wine, swallows. "Rather dull answer, I'm afraid. And you, Mr. Carson?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Restraint." Gives her a chiding look when she rolls her eyes, explains himself, overrides her protest. "Hear me out — all day long I look after priceless silver, expensive wine and spirits, the best china and crystal. A lesser man might be tempted to pocket some of that for himself, but I've never even been tempted. So I think restraint is absolutely an essential quality for a butler."

Elsie grins, lifts the hem of her skirt, flashes an ankle. "Thank goodness for that; I wouldn't feel my virtue is safe if not for your great  _restraint_."

He clears his throat, looks away, reddens a little, and she relents. He hates to be teased, she knows, but sometimes it's difficult not to when he's puffed up and full of himself, when he's just a bit lordly and preening.

 _Restraint_.

_An eye for detail._

She hasn't failed to notice the light blush on his cheekbones; she's not silly enough to think her little gesture caused it, it was more the mention of a woman's virtue, of being safe in his presence, of his restraint around such things. Carson hates references to passion, to sex, to what he refers to as the baser urges. Elsie, speaking strictly for herself, is having that time when she's uncomfortable in her skin, wanting something, anything; when the slightest touch of his arm in the hallway makes her skin burn. She's not sure if it's the change of life a couple of years ago or their growing closeness, or a little of both, but lately she's been decidedly unrestrained in her bedroom in the early mornings. Those mornings when she wakes from some hazy dream that is more whisper and suggestion than anything explicit; even her dreams leave her frustrated.

_Restraint._

She wonders.

Elsie reaches up casually, unbuttons the first two buttons of her dress, pulls at her collar as if it's too tight. Drinks her wine.

"You've never been tempted, Mr. Carson? Really? You're a better man than most, then."

He shakes his head, makes a little careless gesture. "Not once. I respect this house and this family too much to ever consider profiting from their loss."

A third, a fourth.

He shifts in his chair and she smiles a tiny smile; he has to wonder what she's doing, he has to be burning to ask her what she's thinking doing that, why on earth she's unfastening her dress.

He does not ask, just begins talking about the dinner guests for next week, about the menus, about how many rooms will be needed for staying over. She listens attentively, nods in all the right places.

"Five rooms, Mr. Carson, not four. They'll have the child with them."

Carson coughs, corrects himself.

Quietly, carefully, slowly, she begins sliding the dress from her shoulders. Bit by bit, her bare neck, the small cap sleeves of her chemise, then her bare arms reveal themselves as the dress whispers over her arms. With small, pretty movements, she pulls the tight cuffs from her wrists, lets the fabric pool in her lap.

Drinks her wine.

_Restraint._

She wonders.

He's staring intently into the firelight now and he won't meet her eyes, even when she asks direct questions, he won't turn his head to look at her. Elsie smiles. It doesn't matter if he looks, he's already seen and his fingers are clenching against his knees, digging in, his lips are a hard line, his jaw is set, clenched, the small muscles working in his neck.

_An eye for detail, Mr. Carson._

"You'll need to inform the kitchen about that ahead of time. Mrs. Patmore will need plenty of notice if you expect her to deal with that many ducks."

She has the urge to giggle, as this is fairly ridiculous. She's sitting here in his office with her dress pulled down, sitting in her corset and shift and he's trying so hard not to look at the way her breasts push over the top, he's trying to be so good about it all. Elsie tugs at the bottom of her corset, gives it a sharp pull, and it slides down, slides beneath her breasts and pushes them up higher, encased as they are now in just the thin chemise. She clears her throat, nonchalantly talks of menus, bites back a triumphant grin when he steals a look, when his eyes briefly close, when his hands grip his knees so that his knuckles stand out in bas relief.

"She should be able to cope with Daisy and Ivy helping her but you know her, she'll expect —"

He sits back in his chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, swallows. She stands as she talks, pushes her dress over her hips, lets it fall down to the floor. Takes her seat again. Bites her lip as she thinks about how outrageous she's being, sitting here as she is in nothing but her stockings and chemise, her corset and knickers. Toying with him like this just because she's got an itch that she can't seem to scratch. But —

_Restraint. I've never once been tempted._

It was too good to pass up, really, it was almost an invitation. A taunt to do her best, to pick at his seams until he comes completely undone. And he is coming undone; he's breathing harder, fidgeting, and above all, he's pretending it's not happening. Not a word, not a questioning look, not a gesture. Just the tight fist, the labored breath, the flush crawling up his neck from beneath the snow white tie.

_In for a penny in for a pound._

_Restraint._

She wonders.

Slowly, inch by inch, she uses the smallest of motions to tug her chemise up. The tops of her black stockings come into view, the soft white skin above them. Her pulse hammers as she remembers that she wore her shortest knickers today, he can't even see them while she's sitting down, not really. The shift inches up until it's just covering the apex of her thighs, and she lets it rest there.

He's watching now.

His eyes are fixed on that place between her legs, dark and hot and she can almost feel his gaze and she's won; she's won because he's looking and that's a chip in the wall, that's an entire brick gone in his case. He's looking and he's liking what he sees because he winces when he shifts, when he uncrosses and recrosses his ankle over his other knee, winces and swallows and she hasn't failed to notice the heavy weight between his own legs.

Just — she needs more than a look. Just — something. Something she can take with her back to her room, something that will help her in the early morning light when her dreams have left her aching.

With slow, delicate fingers, she pulls the strap of her shift down, down her shoulder, down to her elbow, slips her fingertips beneath the thin fabric and eases it over the hard nipple, the lovely curve of breast, and she checks, checks to make sure he's watching and he is, he's watching all right, and she slowly drags her fingers over the hard peak, teases it, pinches very, very lightly and her hips jerk just a little, her breath comes out in a little sigh and —

"Harder."

Her eyes widen and she grins, a dark, devil grin; he's rubbing his thumb across his lips and she can actually see the pulse pounding in his neck and now he's talking, now he's saying something, now he's acknowledging her. She'll give him that much, then, why not?

Her fingers close around the rosy nipple again and pinch harder this time, tug lightly, roughly manipulate the sensitive, pretty tip for a long moment and she can hear him swallow, can hear the hard click of it as she gasps, she can hear his own breath harsh and fast and —

She pulls up her chemise, her corset, doesn't break eye contact with him. Steps into her dress and pulls it up over her torso, her arms. Considers him as she deftly deals with the small buttons. His eyes are closed now, he's pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, she can see a light sheen of sweat around his hairline.

Elsie picks up her glass of wine and finishes the last swallow or two, replaces it on the table. She'll go to her room now, and she suspects that the early morning hours will be a lovely time of day for her when she wakes.

"I'll say goodnight, Mr. Carson."

He doesn't answer, just holds up a hand, a gesture that says  _go, now, get out, just leave._  A gesture that says  _I can't move, I can't speak, I can't anything, so consider this a goodnight._

_Restraint._

Elsie laughs smugly, arranges her cuffs with a brisk hand, lets herself out into the hallway. Her keys chime as she taps lightly up the stairs.

She  _wonders_.


End file.
